my knowledge of industrial districts amounted to nothing. born in devonshire, educated at cambridge, and fulfilling my destiny as curator of a certain department of antiquities at the british museum, i had never been brought into contact with the vast constructive material activities of lancashire, yorkshire, and staffordshire. i had but passed through them occasionally on my way to scotland, scorning their necessary grime with the perhaps too facile disdain of the clean-faced southerner, who is apt to forget that coal cannot walk up unaided out of the mine, and that the basin in which he washes his beautiful purity can only be manufactured amid conditions highly repellent. well, my impressions of the platform of knype station were unfavourable. there was dirt in the air; i could feel it at once on my skin. and the scene was shabby, undignified, and rude. i use the word 'rude' in all its senses. what i saw was a pushing, exclamatory, ill-dressed, determined crowd, each member of which was bent on the realization of his own desires by the least ceremonious means. if an item of this throng wished to get past me, he made me instantly aware of his wish by abruptly changing my position in infinite space; it was not possible to misconstrue his meaning. so much crude force and naked will-to-live i had not before set eyes on. in truth, i felt myself to be a very brittle, delicate bit of intellectual machinery in the midst of all these physical manifestations. yet i am a tallish man, and these potters appeared to me to be undersized, and somewhat thin too! but what elbows! what glaring egoistic eyes! what terrible decisiveness in action!
'now then, get in if ye're going!' said a red-haired porter to me curtly.
'i'm not going. i've just got out,' i replied.
'well, then, why dunna' ye stand out o' th' wee and let them get in as wants to?'
unable to offer a coherent answer to this crushing demand, i stood out of the way. in the light of further knowledge i now surmise that that porter was a very friendly and sociable porter. but at the moment i really believed that, taking me for the least admirable and necessary of god's creatures, he meant to convey his opinion to me for my own good. i glanced up at the lighted windows of the train, and saw the composed, careless faces of haughty persons who were going direct from london to manchester, and to whom the five towns was nothing but a delay. i envied them. i wanted to return to the shelter of the train. when it left, i fancied that my last link with civilization was broken. then another train puffed in, and it was simply taken by assault in a fraction of time, to an incomprehensible bawling of friendly sociable porters. season-ticket holders at finsbury park think they know how to possess themselves of a train; they are deceived. so this is where simon fuge came from (i reflected)! the devil it is (i reflected)! i tried to conceive what the invaders of the train would exclaim if confronted by one of simon fuge's pictures. i could imagine only one word, and that a monosyllable, that would meet the case of their sentiments. and his dalliance, his tangential nocturnal deviations in gondolas with exquisite twin odalisques! there did not seem to be much room for amorous elegance in the lives of these invaders. and his death! what would they say of his death? upon my soul, as i stood on that dirty platform, in a milieu of advertisements of soap, boots, and aperients, i began to believe that simon fuge never had lived, that he was a mere illusion of his friends and his small public. all that i saw around me was a violent negation of simon fuge, that entity of rare, fine, exotic sensibilities, that perfectly mad gourmet of sensations, that exotic seer of beauty.
i caught sight of my acquaintance and host, mr robert brindley, coming towards me on the platform. hitherto i had only met him in london, when, as chairman of the committee of management of the wedgwood institution and school of art at bursley, he had called on me at the british museum for advice as to loan exhibits. he was then dressed like a self-respecting tourist. now, although an architect by profession, he appeared to be anxious to be mistaken for a sporting squire. he wore very baggy knickerbockers, and leggings, and a cap. this raiment was apparently the agreed uniform of the easy classes in the five towns; for in the crowd i had noticed several such consciously superior figures among the artisans. mr brindley, like most of the people in the station, had a slightly pinched and chilled air, as though that morning he had by inadvertence omitted to don those garments which are not seen. he also, like most of the people there, but not to the same extent, had a somewhat suspicious and narrowly shrewd regard, as who should say: 'if any person thinks he can get the better of me by a trick, let him try—that's all.' but the moment his eye encountered mine, this expression vanished from his face, and he gave me a candid smile.
'i hope you're well,' he said gravely, squeezing my hand in a sort of vice that he carried at the end of his right arm.
i reassured him.
'oh, i'm all right,' he said, in response to the expression of my hopes.
it was a relief to me to see him. he took charge of me. i felt, as it were, safe in his arms. i perceived that, unaided and unprotected, i should never have succeeded in reaching bursley from knype.
a whistle sounded.
'better get in,' he suggested; and then in a tone of absolute command: 'give me your bag.'
i obeyed. he opened the door of a first-class carriage.
'i'm travelling second,' i explained.
'never mind. get in.'
in his tones was a kindly exasperation.
i got in; he followed. the train moved.
'ah!' breathed mr brindley, blowing out much air and falling like a sack of coal into a corner seat. he was a thin man, aged about thirty, with brown eyes, and a short blonde beard.
conversation was at first difficult. personally i am not a bubbling fount of gay nothings when i find myself alone with a comparative stranger. my drawbridge goes up as if by magic, my postern is closed, and i peer cautiously through the narrow slits of my turret to estimate the chances of peril. nor was mr brindley offensively affable. however, we struggled into a kind of chatter. i had come to the five towns, on behalf of the british museum, to inspect and appraise, with a view to purchase by the nation, some huge slip-decorated dishes, excessively curious according to photographs, which had been discovered in the cellars of the conservative club at bursley. having shared in the negotiations for my visit, mr brindley had invited me to spend the night at his house. we were able to talk about all this. and when we had talked about all this we were able to talk about the singular scenery of coal dust, potsherds, flame and steam, through which the train wound its way. it was squalid ugliness, but it was squalid ugliness on a scale so vast and overpowering that it became sublime. great furnaces gleamed red in the twilight, and their fires were reflected in horrible black canals; processions of heavy vapour drifted in all directions across the sky, over what acres of mean and miserable brown architecture! the air was alive with the most extraordinary, weird, gigantic sounds. i do not think the five towns will ever be described: dante lived too soon. as for the erratic and exquisite genius, simon fuge, and his odalisques reclining on silken cushions on the enchanted bosom of a lake—i could no longer conjure them up even faintly in my mind.
'i suppose you know simon fuge is dead?' i remarked, in a pause.
'no! is he?' said mr brindley, with interest. 'is it in the paper?'
he did not seem to be quite sure that it would be in the paper.
'here it is,' said i, and i passed him the gazette.
'ha!' he exclaimed explosively. this 'ha!' was entirely different from his 'ah!' something shot across his eyes, something incredibly rapid—too rapid for a wink; yet it could only be called a wink. it was the most subtle transmission of the beyond-speech that i have ever known any man accomplish, and it endeared mr brindley to me. but i knew not its significance.
'what do they think of fuge down here?' i asked.
'i don't expect they think of him,' said my host.
he pulled a pouch and a packet of cigarette papers from his pocket.
'have one of mine,' i suggested, hastily producing my case.
he did not even glance at its contents.
'no, thanks,' he said curtly.
i named my brand.
'my dear sir,' he said, with a return to his kindly exasperation, 'no cigarette that is not fresh made can be called a cigarette.' i stood corrected. 'you may pay as much as you like, but you can never buy cigarettes as good as i can make out of an ounce of fresh b.d.v. tobacco. can you roll one?' i had to admit that i could not, i who in bloomsbury was accepted as an authority on cigarettes as well as on porcelain. 'i'll roll you one, and you shall try it.'
he did so.
i gathered from his solemnity that cigarettes counted in the life of mr brindley. he could not take cigarettes other than seriously. the worst of it was that he was quite right. the cigarette which he constructed for me out of his wretched b.d.v. tobacco was adorable, and i have made my own cigarettes ever since. you will find b.d.v. tobacco all over the haunts frequented by us of the museum now-a-days, solely owing to the expertise of mr brindley. a terribly capable and positive man! he knew, and he knew that he knew.
he said nothing further as to simon fuge. apparently he had forgotten the decease.
'do you often see the gazette?' i asked, perhaps in the hope of attracting him back to fuge.
'no,' he said; 'the musical criticism is too rotten.'
involuntarily i bridled. it was startling, and it was not agreeable, to have one's favourite organ so abruptly condemned by a provincial architect in knickerbockers and a cap, in the midst of all that industrial ugliness. what could the five towns know about art? yet here was this fellow condemning the gazette on artistic grounds. i offered no defence, because he was right—again. but i did not like it.
'do you ever see the manchester guardian?' he questioned, carrying the war into my camp.
'no,' i said.
'pity!' he ejaculated.
'i've often heard that it's a very good paper,' i said politely.
'it isn't a very good paper,' he laid me low. 'it's the best paper in the world. try it for a month—it gets to euston at half-past eight—and then tell me what you think.'
i saw that i must pull myself together. i had glided into the five towns in a mood of gentle, wise condescension. i saw that it would be as well, for my own honour and safety, to put on another mood as quickly as possible, otherwise i might be left for dead on the field. certainly the fellow was provincial, curt, even brutal in his despisal of diplomacy. certainly he exaggerated the importance of cigarettes in the great secular scheme of evolution. but he was a man; he was a very tonic dose. i thought it would be safer to assume that he knew everything, and that the british museum knew very little. yet at the british museum he had been quite different, quite deferential and rather timid. still, i liked him. i liked his eyes.
the train stopped at an incredible station situated in the centre of a rolling desert whose surface consisted of broken pots and cinders. i expect no one to believe this.
'here we are,' said he blithely. 'no, give me the bag. porter!'
his summons to the solitary porter was like a clap of thunder.
